


Ghosts

by crazycatlady713



Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: Family Feels, Memories, Tearjerker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2014-12-16
Packaged: 2018-03-01 19:50:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2785589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazycatlady713/pseuds/crazycatlady713
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An aged Donatello looks back upon his life, his accomplishments, and his losses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghosts

There was a proverb very popular amongst pseudo-philosophers back in my time, that went something like this: "You either die a hero, or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain." I however, humbly disagree. Sometimes, one can live long enough to simply fade into obscurity, to sit idly by while a lifetime's worth of achievements are reduced to nothing more than fond memories. I can say this with a fair degree of certainty, as my 130th birthday looms menacingly overhead like a bird of prey.

I may be old as dust, but make no mistake. My mind is still as sharp as a tack and my home serves as a shrine to these memories. While I was robbed of my eyesight long ago, I can still remember the story each of my many relics hold, and their presence comforts me. I need only caress the glossy surface of my many photographs or close my gnarled, arthritic hand over any one of these discarded possessions, and I am instantly awash in an ocean of memories.

Take this cane, for instance. This was Master Splinter's cane once, and though it behooves me as a scientist to make such an absurdly shmaltzy statement, it truly feels as though its oaken length is imbued with his spirit. From the scratched orb of petrified mutagen at its top all the way down to its splintered tip, it feels as though Splinter himself is right here with me, helping keep me upright on these worn, unsteady legs. 

Heh, how many times did we (Mikey mostly, truth be told) receive a sound blow to the head as punishment from this very cane whenever we screwed up our katas or disobeyed orders? If it even knows, this battered old stick certainly isn't telling me. That's just as well. Its perennially silent, omnipresent force only further cements my hypothesis that Splinter is still here with me, guiding and protecting me in a new form.

I lean heavily on it as I hobble over to the mantle, above which Leonardo's katanas are mounted. He long ago bequeathed his cherished weapons to me when he eschewed violence for a more peaceful existence, having wisely concluded that killing only begets more killing. He continued to change lives however, in the form of a teacher. His natural leadership abilities translated well to the classroom, where he proved himself an extremely effective, if somewhat strict, educator.

I reach out and test my thumb against one of the nicked blades; Its still sharp, even after all these years, and while the leather around the grip has begun to fray, it still holds tight. I can swear I still smell his sweat upon these swords, saturated as they were from years of being grasped in his capable hands as he rushed headlong into battle. It could very well just be my imagination, though.

Situated directly below sits a large photograph, its heavy frame free of dust. It was taken almost a century ago, on opening day of Raphael's bar/restaurant. It was an amazingly successful venture for many years, and it afforded Raph an opportunity to meet a variety of interesting and unusual people. He, amongst all my brothers, was the most eager to befriend others and live life to the fullest. Though his abrasive exterior would have suggested otherwise, we always knew.

I press my fingertips against the glass and can feel the joy radiating from the scene captured therein, our faces beaming proudly as we pose with our arms around one another's shoulders. I also can't help but salivate slightly at the thought of those delicious deep-fried Bacon n' Cream Cheese Caltrops his establishment used to serve. This was before the famine, you see...

On the far side of the room stands a well-stocked bookcase, its shelves packed with a great many fine publications. Chief amongst them however is a signed first edition of Michelangelo's very first novel. He always possessed such an active imagination, and it seemed only natural that he'd parley those fantastic musings to the written word. As proud as he was of signing that contract, we were even prouder.

"This'll be worth a ton of money on Ebay someday!" he happily proclaimed as he handed us each an autographed copy. He turned out to be right, but we would never part with something so precious.

I cannot read it anymore obviously, but I don't need to. As I glide an index finger down the well-worn spine, I can hear the clanging of broadswords, the gallop of horses and the chanting of wizards, the magical land of Seri locked in perpetual war.

Sharing shelf space with this tome is another book, a photo album practically bursting at the seams with photos detailing the life of the O'Neil-Jones family. I'll be perfectly honest, here; I didn't think April and Casey were going to make it as a couple, initially. She, though loving, was very career-oriented and somewhat uptight while he, as steadfast an ally as he always was, tended to be rather reckless, mercurial and slightly dim-witted. When it became clear that April was unable to bear due to her rather unique physiology, I truly believed that would be the death knell of their relationship. They proved all the naysayers wrong however, successfully maintaining a happy marriage for the duration of their lives while proving themselves wonderful parents to the adopted children they picked up along the way. We were privileged to be a part of their children's lives, as well as the lives of their grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and herein lies the proof.

I can see each picture without seeing, so often have I pored over this album when I still possessed sight. This one here is one of my favorites: Their eldest daughter's first birthday, her face covered in cake and frosting dripping from her blonde pigtails. That's Mikey as the clown. Here is their granddaughter's sweet sixteen party, a lovely affair Raph catered himself (there I go, drooling again.) This one is of their great-grandson's high school graduation; he is shaking hands with Leo, his favorite teacher.

They are all gone now, having either succumbed to the many disasters now plaguing the earth or simply departing for another planet altogether during the evacuation. Or just plain old age. What's left of the population could definitely benefit from our unique skill set, but I'm all that's left of my family. Even if I still had my former strength I simply haven't the inclination. My world turned dark long before my eyes failed me, when they were taken...as far as I'm concerned, this entire worthless planet can hop aboard a bullet train headed straight for the goddamn sun.

I suppose there _was_ some truth in that old adage, after all. Oh well.

Computer, kindly play Ravel's _Oiseaux Tristes_ , as performed by Jean-Yves Thibaudet. Remain on continuous loop till signs of life have ceased. Do not resuscitate.

I've heard it said that when one dies, they are instantly enveloped in a magnificent white light and led into the afterlife by loved ones who have preceded them in death. I hope to God that's true. While I never used to put much stock in such sentimental drivel, I find my viewpoints shifting significantly in my old age. There's precious little I can hold on to these days, and I cling desperately to whatever shred of hope is available to me. My only hope now is that I see them again. The glow they radiate can put Heaven's vaunted white light to shame, and can dispel the blackness of Hell itself. And I have lived in darkness for far too long.

**Author's Note:**

> Damn, the future sucks. Now where the hell did I leave those cyanide pills!?


End file.
